


Lies of the Mind

by Angeliz (OctoberSpirit)



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Blood, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Violence, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stabbing, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Verbal Humiliation, protective bakura
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-20
Updated: 2008-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:25:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3742477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctoberSpirit/pseuds/Angeliz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is trapped somewhere beneath the surface, trapped by dark magic and the body pressed against him. Trapped to protect the quiet voice deep within his soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lies of the Mind

"Nngh!"

The sound slips out of him unbidden as he hits the wall, stone cracking and crumbling with the force of the impact, and he curses silently at the loss of control. That bastard doesn't need the satisfaction. It's enough that he has him here, ankles bound in thick silvery shackles, somewhere in this godforsaken labyrinth miles below the surface. He does not need this as well, this breaking of will.

Silently, he moves to spring upward--the confident, feline shift of a practiced thief--but motion blurs at the periphery of his vision and he's down again, back pressed against the cold stone of the wall before he can even hiss at the pain of it. Weight presses against his torso deliberately, lashes of fire against broken ribs, and this time he _does_ hiss, glaring, teeth bared in a grimace of fury.

The face before him is calm and emotionless, evil in its gaze like lavender death, smirk ghosting at the corner of its lips. The midnight cape pools around them both, gold glinting dangerously from its depths. Between them, the Ring shifts against Bakura's bare chest.

If he could just get the Rod…

And then he can't help but wince as the Item's hidden blade slams into his hand, through his hand, sinking into the age-worn stone with a twist and a blooming of blood. "Looking for this?" asks Marik silkily, impossibly, for Bakura's hand hadn't even had time to twitch, let alone to reach for the ancient weapon, but there is knowing in those cold, dead eyes and the Item itself is buried almost to its hilt in his flesh. "You shouldn't take what isn't yours, thief."

"So says the hypocrite," he spits, angrily, as his free hand swings around in a fist. The force of the swing tugs painfully at the ragged edges of his staked hand, tearing the skin, blood spilling warm and crimson over the smooth floor. Marik catches his wrist easily; his grip is iron.

"We're not so different, you and I. We know what it is to take what we want."

_"What_ we want, not _who_ we—unh!"

Bits of stone chip and shatter, hitting the ground in a shower as pain shoots down his spine. The golden eye on Marik's forehead pulses softly in the darkness. "It's all the same to me," he says, sliding fluidly between his captive's legs, one knee forcing apart his thighs. There is a slight rattle of chain against stone, a dusky whisper of skin on skin. A wrenching ripping of bandages between teeth. Blood gushes down his arm and into Marik's open mouth, a strong, slippery tongue lapping at the wound.

He lashes out, unthinking, elbow jerking toward the too-calm face, comes up short with the twist of a wrist. Marik moves against him, pins him, presses against his groin through bloodstained jeans. His smirk is mad with power as he reaches with his free hand, capturing the pale face between finger and thumb, brushing back silky white locks. The grasp is bruising.

Blood rushes to his face as he realizes the intent, and he jerks back, jaw clenched, hate and shame burning dark in his eyes. "Get the _hell_ off me," he snarls, canines catching the light. The shackles bite into his ankles; Marik bites into his flesh. He looks all the madder for the blood on his lips.

"Not one for foreplay, then?"

_"Bastard."_

"Among other things." The tongue darts out, tasting the trickle of blood from his forehead, hand sliding down his neck to the smooth pane of his chest. It presses, gently, against the wounded ribs, the twisted face grinning in satisfaction at the resulting crack.

Bakura's pupils narrow to pinpoints, skin a stark white. He does not cry out.

"You know," Marik almost-purrs, "there's no way you can win against me. You're already defeated." The dark, cruel fingers are toying with his jeans, the button already undone, the touches ghosting lower against his flesh. He shudders but does not reply. Marik smirks. "I must admit, though, that the struggle intrigues me. It will be a pleasure to break you."

"As though you could—"

"Oh, but I can. And I _shall."_

"Nn!" He cannot hold back the noise, weak and pitiful though it sounds, and he immediately curses himself for it, curses Marik and his quick, grasping hands as they pull roughly at his cock. "You unbelievable bastard…"

Marik only chuckles, a dark, empty sound. "Your body betrays you, thief," he observes, continuing without shame. His hands are large but clever, teasing, touching, claiming. Every movement exudes chilled calculation. There is no emotion; even his lust-clouded eyes seem sickly coagulated. And yet still, those fingers, those hands…

"If it makes you feel better, you could imagine me your precious host. I believe that might do the trick quite nicely."

This jolts him like electricity, a new flame of hate licking through his core, and he jerks involuntarily toward his captor. The rent skin of his pinned hand protests bloodily against the stone. "If you come anywhere near him, I swear to you—"

"You are in no position, thief--" he laughs, humorless, forcing their bodies together "--to be making any sort of threat against me." Marik's tongue darts out, snaking down his cheek, his neck, his chest, swirling hot and vile against a nipple. "Though if you do in fact care so much…begging is a welcome option." His teeth close around it, punctuating the point.

He makes a sharp sound at the pain of it, and at the pleasure, a foreign sensation that touches at his body in white-hot points but does not reach his mind nor soul. He silently curses the physical betrayal, the coiling heat low in his abdomen and the obvious stiffening below. It is a curse of his quasi-humanity, unwelcome and unwanted. His consciousness protests even as his body responds.

Marik interrupts, jerking their gazes level. "I don't believe I hear any begging. Shall I find out instead if that boy tastes as sweet as his unwelcome tenant?"

"Don't. You sick bastard, don't you dare— _ah!"_

"I said _beg,"_ Marik hisses, low and laughing, large bronze hand wrapped around his unwilling erection. Agonizingly, the fingers slide up and down, base to tip, coaxing him to painful hardness as his mind reels in disgust. "Now obey, unless you'd prefer that your host receive this exquisite torment instead of _you."_ He tugs at the last word, eliciting a strangled gasp and a shocked glare from his dark-eyed captive. Their gazes lock for a single moment.

"Leave him out of this." The command is a soft rasp, halted by another insistent pull, another flick of tongue to skin as Marik's free hand slides Bakura's jeans down over his pale hips. "…Please."

"Better," Marik taunts, "but hardly what I would call convincing. Convince me, king of thieves. Make me _believe you!"_

"Ahh! _Please,_ gods take it, you insufferable bastard! Please! Leave him be!"

The dark chuckle sounds, vibrations against his skin, fingers grasping and claiming as he writhes beneath them. "Gods, you're beautiful when you're humiliated. Tell me, is your host watching? Does he feel you now?"

"Fuck off," he breathes, glaring again because it seems to be all he can do. A sickening shiver runs through him as Marik runs his thumb roughly over his slit, fumbling at his own jeans with his other hand.

"Not a bad idea, thief, though it doesn't answer my question. Your pretty little host—what does he think of you now? No, no, don't hold him back, let him see. Let him watch."

_Bakura…?_

"No," he says in a sudden panic, struggling for control. "No! Marik, _no,_ you son of a bitch!"

"Lovely, when you're losing your hold on everything." Marik smiles like a cobra, pushes him backward against the wall, blinding him with the pain of his broken ribs. Beyond his vision, Bakura feels cold fingers spreading his legs, gripping his skin like ten tiny vices. _No,_ he thinks once, desperately, but then he is arching his back and Marik is slamming into him all at once, merciless.

It is pure agony as he begins to thrust, unhesitating and unaided by anything at all. Marik's lavender eyes are clinically pleased as his large cock becomes bloodied, and he shifts his angle, aiming for a most twisted pleasure through the bright explosions of pain. The worst part is that he's succeeding, for Bakura can feel himself hardening once more, responding under Marik's desert-rough palms. It is utterly degrading, and he can feel his host just beneath the surface, concerned confusion strong in the current of his thoughts.

He must not see him like this.

Marik's hands leave his cock to grasp at his hips, rocking him upward to meet each thrust, deep and unerring within him. The manacles rattle around his ankles, and he can feel his own blood, hot rivulets running down his thighs. "Touch yourself," Marik growls. "I want to see you come."

"I want to see you _dead,"_ he manages, but with his host so close at the edge of his consciousness, so close to the monster pounding relentlessly into his body, what can he do? What can either of them do? Wincing, he brings his free hand around, grasps loosely at his throbbing erection. Tugs harshly, staring blinded at the ceiling.

It seems eternity before his body offers its final betrayal, spilling its seed across his hand. Marik groans above him, gives one last violent thrust, and follows, collapsing atop him in the heat of the moment. He gives a strangled cry at the pressure on his wounded ribs, jerks involuntarily to the side. There is an audible rending from his right hand.

Marik glances up lazily, smiles a slow Cheshire smile. He seems inordinately pleased, though detachedly so, reaching up to tear the Rod from the flesh it is embedded in. He says nothing, and he doesn't need to. The smile is enough as he slides from between Bakura's legs, leaning up to place one maliciously chaste kiss upon unresponsive lips. Bakura can taste his own blood there.

And then Marik is standing, fixing his jeans, flicking his tongue to catch the last smears of blood on his fingers. Idly, he frees the bindings with a wave of his hand. The glowing eye flickers and fades from his forehead. "I trust you'll be able to find your way out."

Paling sharply as he tries to move, Bakura can only summon the slightest of glares, eyes dark and unreadable. "I'll find it," he says, grasping almost instinctively at the Ring. "Now get the hell away from me."

He looks away then, dimly aware of the swish of a violet cape through the doorway, the reverberation of a dark laugh down the corridor. The pale light of Marik's magic fades from the room as he goes, leaving darkness to close around him, swallow him, blind him. The Ring is warm against his bloodied chest, but he does not have the will to command it. For now, the darkness is welcome.

_Bakura…_

He jolts and instantly regrets it, shifting gingerly against the wall. His host, his Ryou. Worry dominant in his soul, pressing against his control, and Marik is finally gone, finally. With a sigh, he nods, relinquishes his hold on the younger consciousness. Warmth floods into his burning heart.

_Bakura! My God, what happened? Are you…?_

"Fine. It's not worth your worry."

_But you can't even move. Bakura, let me—_

"No," he says quietly, harshly. It echoes in the darkness. "No. Just give me a moment. To be sure that he's gone."

The voice in his mind quiets, hurt. He can feel it clearly beneath the fire of his physical wounds. When it speaks again, it is softer, quieter. Saddened. _You won't let me help you._

He turns his head to the wall, rests fevered skin against the deep cool of the stone there. "No. This is fine, yadonushi."

And it is. Or it will be.

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first fic I ever wrote with explicit sexual content. It was based on a Yami Bakura/Yami Marik fanart I found online (which I've long since lost track of), complete with tomblike background, shackles, and Millennium Rod hand-stabbery. Basically, I wrote my interpretation of the situation depicted, and decided that Bakura was trying to protect Ryou. 
> 
> It was an exercise in writing outside of my comfort zone, I guess. 2008, man.
> 
> Originally posted on ffnet.


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